


The Viper Pit

by Anonymous



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Aleron Lives, Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Eventual Smut, M/M, Omega Verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:41:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28209237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: It was only when King Theomedes fell ill did he think to suture the rotting chasm between Vere and Akielos. His son and heir was in love with the daughter of a minor noble from Aegina, and he'd continued to snub the pursuits of the many suitors offered by the kyroi, who had since turned their attentions to the bastard brother. A dangerous rumor had snaked its way from the harem chambers to the ears of the nobility;Damianos is infertile.These were the fractals Laurent had caught for himself from across the Ellosean sea, primed to shatter into colors new and gruesome.
Relationships: Damen/Erasmus (Captive Prince), Damen/Laurent (Captive Prince)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 26
Collections: Anonymous, Captive Prince Secret Santa 2020





	The Viper Pit

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sitical](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sitical/gifts).



> Think of this as a draft 0, but it has been polished to the best of my abilities for now. I promise I will revise this and add all that smutty smutty goodness. Happy new year!

It was only when King Theomedes fell ill did he think to suture the rotting chasm between Vere and Akielos. His son and heir was in love with the daughter of a minor noble from Aegina, and he'd continued to snub the pursuits of the many suitors offered by the kyroi, who had since turned their attentions to the bastard brother. A dangerous rumor had snaked its way from the harem chambers to the ears of the nobility; _Damianos is infertile_. 

These were the fractals Laurent had caught for himself from across the Ellosean sea, primed to shatter into colors new and gruesome. 

"You're asking me to seduce him?" Laurent said one night. 

His father's eyes snapped to his, a tired, watery shade of blue. Laurent wasn't sure of the last time he'd seen them, at least, in such a pitiful state. But then again, Laurent was sure Father could say the same about him. He hadn't even asked Laurent to meet for dinner in the King's chambers that night, sending a servant in his place. 

"You're fertile, aren't you? Paschal tells me your heats are growing less sporadic, however rare they may be." Father's tone was dull as he absentmindedly speared a bit of steak with his fork. He regarded it for a moment before eating. 

Laurent suppressed a flush, "I'm the Crown Prince, not a common whore to be sold." 

"And a Crown Prince needs an heir." 

"Surely there is a better option than some impotent barbarian who slaughtered your own son." 

" _Laurent_." The shrill clatter of the fork, accompanied by his father's rising anger, was enough to stop his verbal tirade. "Theomedes is on his deathbed, and you do nothing for your kingdom. Do not think to judge my actions as callous while you continue to shirk your duties as the Crown Prince. When was the last time you visited the border? Or do you only ride as far as Acquitart?" 

"Enough," Laurent stood abruptly. He could hear his father sigh as the door shut behind him. 

As he began the grueling walk back to his quarters, the hair on his neck raised with each guard he passed, their gazes trailing after him hungrily, even as covered as he was, from high collar to polished boot tip. The grind of his teeth threatened to crack them, but his hands were lax at his sides. He'd been told his scent was of inoffensive orange blossoms, with only a hint of citrusy bite in his most vicious moods. Attractive by an alpha's undiscriminating standards. 

In the solace his own chambers offered, the chambers of the Crown Prince, Laurent unlaced his jacket and threw it to the ground. 

_Vultures take their Prince,_ he thought. Laying back into his plush mattress, he sighed, tossing an arm over his face. Auguste would have never chided him like that. Auguste would have stood up for him, told their father what a cowardly old fool he'd become in the shadow of a war lost. Him and his entire court. 

_Let me be_ , Laurent wanted to say. _Please, just let me be._

* * *

The proposal from Vere arrived earlier than expected. Damen would have thought them to hold a protective vice on their young omega prince, but it appeared they'd also grown desperate. 

A line of slaves entered his cabin, lithe arms heavy with platters of food, and set them down before him. They filled his cup with ocean aged wine, dredged the previous dawn from the shores of Nerites. 

One slave, a golden-haired young man, carefully lifted a honey-drizzled fig to Damen's lips. The slave's dark eyes melted when they made brief contact with Damen's own, and he hurriedly looked away out of respect. 

When Damen found the time, he would ask the handler for this one's name. 

The ship rocked suddenly, causing the slave to balance himself against Damen, his hand unthinkingly wrapping around his bicep. At the realization, the slave gasped, moved to prostrate himself onto the carpeted floor, with a whispered _Forgive this one, Exalted_ caught in his throat. Damen only laughed and placed his hands on the slave's hips to balance him. 

"Be still," Damen said into the crook of his neck. 

Another gasp. 

Blooming spring, scenting of delicate sea lavender that clung to the limestone cliffs of Ios. Damen was pleased at how eager the omega was, apparent in the possessive way Damen nuzzled against what exposed skin the slave's chiton offered. 

And though he didn't intend to take the slave with quite so many eyes on them, that did nothing to extinguish Damen's disappointment when there came a knock at his door. 

"Enter." 

Two guards made their way inside. "Exalted," they greeted with a swift bow. One spoke, "The ship has docked. Kyros Nikandros insists you join him in the preparations for the procession." 

"Does he now?" Damen quirked a brow. He could already imagine Nikandros' face outlined in worry with lines deep as valleys. 

The slave in his arms shivered in the presence of the two new alphas. Running a soothing hand down the slave's nape, where he felt the thick, gold collar, Damen said, "Very well. Tell him I'll be there in a moment." 

Not an hour later, Nikandros was frowning at his approach. 

"What?" Damen asked. 

"You smell like a seraglio." 

"Are you complimenting my skill?" 

Nikandros' expression softened, though the tone of his voice didn't change, "You can't address the King of Vere like that, much less his son." 

"Surely we can stop at an inn or a bathhouse along the way? Don't worry so much." 

"How can I not," Nikandros said. "When this country still knows you as _Prince-killer_?" 

Nikandros, despite his attempts to hide it, was run ragged under his newfound laurel of Kyros. The shadows set deep beneath his grave and tired eyes, and griva-tinged breath from late nights hunched over a seemingly endless stream of letters from the marches. Another uprising, another slave rebellion, almost all of them from Delpha. Six years had done nothing to tide Veretian fury. 

Damen clasped a hand around Nikandros' shoulder. Felt the muscle there yield slightly under his touch. "All will be well. We will meet and court and drink, and all will be well." 

"And you'll be married off to some venomous, little prince who won't hesitate to stab you on your wedding night." 

"Nonsense," Damen said. "He's an omega." 

"He's a Veretian, Damianos." Nikandros rested his hand atop Damen's. "Never forget that." 

In the carriage, Nikandros was less than keen to speak on his time in Delpha. It was only one of two places in the world where the starburst banner still dared to fly. And now they were heading straight into the maw of the other. 

Damen, deemed acceptably scrubbed of any lingering pheromones and slick, straightened the carved, gilt lion pinning his chiton in place, his chlamys strewn about his shoulders, a brilliant crimson. The final touch was a laurel, sweeping curves of paper-thin gold, the leaves finding grandeur atop his head of dark brown curls. He glanced at his reflection in a hand mirror and almost dropped it. Even clean-shaven, Damen was struck by how much he resembled his father. 

"Are you alright?" Nikandros asked him in a hoarse whisper. 

"Yes." Damen handed the mirror off. "Yes, I'm fine." 

"Don’t tell me you're sea-drunk." 

"I'm sober." 

"I'll believe you when you show me you can march in a straight line." 

"Fortunately for me then, we're taking the chariots." 

"I beg of you, please do not crash the chariot in front of the Veretian King," Nikandros said. 

Their banter continued to the beat of hooves along the main road, making one final stop to dress the horses before entering past the gates of Arles. With armor polished to blazing bronze, the procession began. A herald sounded his horn, the others raising their banners in response. It’s done in the classic style, though the sacrificial horse has been spared the honor, lest the Veretians scorn sacred blood on the palace steps. Had they been in Ios, the High Priestess would have slaughtered not one, but three fine destriers, champions fresh from the stadion tracks, blood raw and red in their veins. 

A crowd gathered on either side of their path. Mothers held their restless children to their sides, young and ruddy-faced as they struggled to catch a glimpse at the towering Akielon troops atop their tassled mounts. Some looked on with awe, others disdain, others fear. 

Damen’s grip on the reins tighten. Nikandros had been correct to not let Pallas accompany him as his charioteer, for a hot-headed noble with a sword was an easy way to get someone killed. 

Deeper into the city, the palace at Arles looked as though it was constructed with Akielon sensibilities in mind, specifically to ignore them. All parapets and chimneys, useless ornamentation without thought for defense, should the city ever require it. Even a centuries’ long feud with Akielos couldn’t change that. 

Atop the wide steps, three figures stood to receive them, all dressed in their state finery, the King in red, a shade darker than that of the Akielon royal family. Next to him stood the Duke of Semois, born a beta unlike his elder brother. A noticeable step further away from the King stood his youngest son. His only son now. Crown Prince Laurent of Vere, dressed in severe, dark clothing with barely a slice of skin showing in the bud of newly forming summer heat. The top of his head barely reached the height of where his father’s chin began. 

The procession came to a halt in the courtyard, perfectly lined, a humble show of the quality of the men sent by King Theomedes. 

At the Veretian herald’s signal, Damen ascended the steps to greet King Aleron. 

In situations like these, it was common courtesy for an alpha to suppress their pheromones in the presence of their betters. The whole of Vere was Aleron’s demesne, not just a single country estate where one could tumble the stableboy if they tread carefully enough. Yet, as Damen came to look Aleron in the eyes, he couldn’t pick up his scent. Not even the stench of rot he’d long since grown to associate with a Vere still in mourning. There was just nothing. 

Aleron extended a hand, bear, save for his large signet ring. Damen bent the knee, taking that hand and pressing a kiss to the red stone; ruby, or garnet. For a moment Damen thought he might have cut his lips on the jewel, for his mouth suddenly filled with the taste of blood. He sniffed lightly, searching for the scent of iron, but his gaze only came to land on Aleron’s stoic son. 

Laurent of Vere. 

When he'd last seen the young Prince it had been from across a long cypress table, his head of golden hair barely cresting the goblets when he sat down. How he'd shook with range then. How he'd scowled so cruelly as his father and uncle begged for parley. 

What little he did show off was a feast for the eyes. He'd gone through all of the expected changes of a boy on the cusp of manhood. What he would have almost called lanky shaped itself into slim calves, long fingers, a trim waist. And his face. Damen felt himself shift, back straightened and shoulders rolled back, in the image of regality, his chlamys swayed with the motion and he opened his mouth to greet him. 

Aleron was already ushering him into the hall. 

* * *

Only hours after their arrival, both Damen and his men had already been the recipients of hundreds of offers from the Veretian court. And it seemed the higher in rank, the more intense the innuendo. Never in Akielos would he have watched as an alpha, clad in the barest of silks, lowered himself before Damen, the musk of his scent smothered by _chalis_. The only place in the whole palace he seemed to escape the scent was in one of their labyrinthian gardens. 

Laurent was nowhere to be seen. 

The slight chill of the sheets was a welcome presence against his palms. The muscles in his legs slid comfortably into place, limp as the watered silks. 

His evening finery sat laid out on the bed from where the servants had drawn in from the sparse belongings he’d brought with him. 

The apartments they’d given him more than made up for the dearth of trappings. Heavy ornamentation curling around the edges of his visions, threatening to blind him with their brilliance. The shelves lined with baubles, the cabinets jewelled from the inside out, the damask glimmer of the canopy draped about his poster bed. Damen found himself sighing with relief when he saw no mirror placed above the place he was meant to sleep. 

Vere was just as he’d imagined it. A land of honey-drizzled words and smiles carved sharp from sugar. But their king was agreeable and their prince looked to be as complacent as he was beautiful. That was all the alliance needed really. 


End file.
